The Cadence
by Li Kayun
Summary: [WA3 AU] When Jet is found while he tries to be lost, he discovers that there are still some things that can be patched with time.
1. De Capo

Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Wild ARMS Advanced 3rd.

A/N: I don't know what genre to put this in. I thank aya-yahiko for allowing me to do this. 

Summary: AU-plot, mostly, playing with the possibilities given if Jet were really to leave.

Warnings: Possible spoiler alert, and some OOC-ness, because they're not teenagers anymore.

The Cadence

_De Capo_ – _From the Beginning_

            Simply put, it was beginning to get monotonous.

            Long ago, he had realized that everything was not a stage, that the world was really more gray than black or white, that the heroes and the villains were hard to distinguish. Without lighting, background music, or scripts, it had hit him quite bluntly on his head once that heroes weren't so heroic and villains weren't quite so devious. After all, he had been a hero or something like that once, hadn't he? That was a long time ago. 

            "Hey honey," a lilting voice sounded to his left and an especially crass woman sidled up next to him, pushing her bosom up with unabashed pride. She flicked her hair absently over her shoulder and turned to pout at him again with large painted lips. "You lookin' for somethin' to pass your time 'ere?"

            He brushed her away roughly. "Get off my arm," he snapped, and turned back to his drink as he attempted to balance it on two fingers alone. "I don't have any cash to give you, if that's what you're asking for. Go find some drunk and steal it off of him."

            "Aww, don't play hard to get, honey! I don't bite."

            "I said, get off, you old hag." He hissed.

            She made a little noise of offense and scooted away from him, bustling her hips about in a shameless attempt to attract the attention of some man whom was so deep into drunken stupor that he wouldn't notice how absolutely repulsive she was. Honestly, he wondered where Claudia hired her girls from nowadays.

            A fit of nostalgia overtook him. The first time he had met Claudia, it was on that mission, wasn't it? Of course, it had been one of the firsts. After those, he had left, after all.

            "Thanks for clearing the seat. I was wondering when that hippo would move." 

            "I thought I told you to…" he began, but cut himself short once he noticed that it was a different person speaking. Suddenly uninterested, he shrugged and glowered at his drink. It wasn't quite so strong, this mix. He never quite liked the taste of alcohol, could never understand when men wolfed cup after cup down. He drank it because it drowned out the sounds of the crowds, allowed him to withdraw for a short period of time. 

And, he was thirsty.

The newcomer adjusted herself – for he noticed it was a she from her high and singsong voice – on her seat, not quite enjoying the fact that it was rock hard and unpleasantly warm. She stopped fidgeting for a moment, and finally realized that he hadn't actually replied. "You told me to what? Is someone sitting here, because it looked empty enough?" 

He rolled his eyes as she craned her neck to see if anybody was approaching. "No. I thought you were someone else. Don't work yourself up."

A little indignant, she shrugged and turned to the bartender to ask for her own drink. He was neither interested enough or alert enough to notice what she ordered, but he was conscious enough to raise an inquisitive brow when a dark chocolate drink covered with frothy white and a plump cherry was slid over the glossed tabletops to her. 

He stared for a moment, and realized that it was a soda float. He blinked, and reminded himself that this was a bar and that soda floats were not quite commonly ordered in a rundown place like this. 

"Something wrong?" the woman said.

He didn't even look at her face, mainly because he wasn't quite intrigued with how she looked, and turned back to his half-empty mug. With one consecutive string of gulps, he downed the rest of it down and idly rubbed the cup handle with his thumb.

She laughed, surprisingly. "You're not much of a conversationalist, I see."

He shrugged noncommittally and supported his head his palm. Let's see…after this, he would go to the inn and pay for a night– that last wild goose chase took a little more out of him than he suspected it would (good thing it paid him decently) – perhaps he would have a chance to sleep tonight. If he were lucky, he would get two hours of slumber before the dawn reared its head. The next morning, he would…

            "So, are you a drifter?" she asked, suddenly.

            His brows creased. "Do I look out of place in this town?" Funny, he had been in Little Twister numerous times before and no one had noticed him then.

            "No," she answered and took a sip of her soda, "but you look familiar."

            Therefore, for the first time that night, Jet Enduro turned his head and noticed someone. This girl, who had been so brash as to sit down beside him and so strange as to order a soda pop in a low-class bar, had long and braided chestnut hair, though a few renegade strands did tend to slip past the barricade of her headband. She faced them and their gazes met. Smiling, she turned back towards her drink.

            "You're a drifter?" he asked.

            She nodded curtly. "Well, obviously. I wouldn't have asked you otherwise."

            He frowned and ordered another cup of blissful alcohol, deciding he was delusional.

            "You shouldn't drink so much. That looked like a pretty big cup you had already. You might get too drunk to even get up, and then the thieves would come after you like vultures." She said, with her shining green eyes focused on the bright red cherry she fruitlessly attempted to impale with her straw. She added offhandedly, as if she had no fear, "Unless you're some petty thief yourself. I guess that might not apply then."

            "Don't jump to conclusions so quickly." He said, and realized with amazing fascination that his voice was slurring. He had never been able to drink so much as to even touch the brink of drunkenness. "I think I have both the right to tell you that I'm not a thief – so stop acting so cocky – and I can drink as much as I want."

            "Until you keel over." She said, completely unfazed and cocky. "And pass out."

            He glared at her with all his half-conscious worth. "You're awfully nosy for a stranger."

            "I think we've met before, actually. That's why you're so familiar." Finally, she poked the straw through the exact center of the cherry and popped it daintily in her mouth. With a smile, "So I guess that doesn't quite make us complete strangers anymore." 

            "Whatever."

            "You know," she began, turning her stool to look at him properly. He noticed that her eyes lingered a little bit too long over the top of his head. Sipping at her soda, her eyes never left their focus of interest once as she talked. "You have a very funny shade of hair, no offense. Are you really that old, to have such gray hair? You look pretty young with your face, but it's that mop on your head I'm worried about."

            Feeling moody because of the lightheadedness the alcohol gave him, he drew his travelling cloak hood up and over his head. Then, he slumped sleepily into the cradle of his arms on the table. The second cup was empty again, pushed over to the bartender and the sink again. "Yeah, well don't bother worrying. It isn't any of your business to begin with." He paused, and added, "You're really, really nosy, even if I did know you."

            She simply laughed again. "You sound familiar, the way you talk. I told you that I did know you. We've met before somewhere, perhaps it was a long time ago. I just don't remember it. But, come on, you know I look familiar too. I wasn't the only one staring for a while before."

            Jet, having buried his face in the crook of his arms, was very glad he only blushed then. She had noticed him staring, then? Who the hell did she think she was? Probably some passing drifter they had bumped into at a commonplace town or something – back when 'he' and been a 'they'. "Whatever." He mumbled. 

"What? I didn't hear you."

"Just leave me alone."

            When he looked up, she was shaking her head. "No, I don't think I want to do that."

            "Why not?" It was the alcohol, he reasoned, that was making his voice sound like a petulant whine. It had to be the alcohol. He was an adult now, and adults didn't whine! How utterly unbecoming he must have looked then. He reminded himself never to get drunk again. It wasn't worth it.

            "Well, because I think you want to talk to me."

            He scoffed loudly.

            "And because I haven't finished my soda yet." 

            "Do what you want." He told her, shifting his position so that he laid his head on his arms facing the other way, meaning he didn't have to look at her familiar, annoying face. "It doesn't matter to me either way."

            "Whatever you say." She chimed. Loudly, she slurped up the remnants of the soda clinging on to the bottom of the cup, along with licking the vanilla froth off of her straw before pushing the cup away. Then, when he would have suspected that she just leave, he heard a silence that meant two things – she wasn't going to leave, and this was going to be one hell of a long night. 

            "So, what are you in town for?" she chirped.

            He glared at her empty cup. "You're finished with your drink now."

            She shrugged. "So?"

            He groaned.

            What's worse was that he was beginning to feel drowsy. The edges of his vision were beginning to fade to black, and the sounds in his ears were gradually melding together into one soft and pleasant rumble somewhere in the distance. He didn't mind, actually, since it drew him away from the hustle and bustle about him. Perhaps he would get drunk again sometime; it was a rather pleasant feeling – that warmth spiraling up from his chest.

            "Hey, hey, you alright?" 

            So why the hell was her voice still so cutting?

            "Dammit, I told you to leave me alone. Can't you follow instructions?" He brushed off her hand on his upper arm slowly and deliberately before settling back onto the haven of his arms. Her gloved fingers still hovered near his shoulders as she scrutinized him. She seemed to know as if something weren't quite right.

            "You don't look so good. Maybe you should get to you to bed to rest now." She stood up and moved towards him, obviously meaning to help him up or something. He scowled and shook his head, disappointed at the dizziness that flooded and blurred his senses. Clutching his head, he stumbled backwards and would have fallen had she not caught his arm in time. "You're definitely not so good. You have a room somewhere?" 

            "No," he managed to croak. "The inn…"

            She nodded and slung his arm around her shoulders, adding her support on to his flimsy knees. He tried to draw away, but when he almost fell, he acceded to her help, though he kept as far away from her as possible at all times. Such a reserved and solitary boy, she noticed. He must have still had enough sense to suspect that she might be a thief herself – quite clever. All thoughts were brushed aside when Jet gave a moan. 

"Alright." She said, and he thought, somewhere in his drunken state, that she sounded genuinely concerned for such a stranger. "Just stay awake, will you? I can't hold you up if you're going to go completely slack. I'll get you to the inn and to a room, alright? Bear with me a little until then, and at least try to stand right."

            He nodded, feeling a wave of pounding pain in his head began to emerge. "Just walk, will you?" He groaned and leaned a little bit more heavily on her, although he seemed reluctant at making more contact with another person than necessary. When they were out in the open, crisp air, he felt a little better breathing in when the atmosphere wasn't noisy and crowded, muggy and smelled of stupor. 

Slowly, they began to hobble up the street.

            Jet passed out after the first few steps, somewhere in his mind cursing himself for such clumsiness, for the need of such dependence, for the desire of alcohol in the first place because he had been so terribly desperate to run away. 

            Then the world ceased to exist. 

            If this was some sort of retribution, he was certain that it had been enough to nullify the sin of cowardice. Not only did he have to pass out – he had never done that before, no matter how much he drank – but he had to rely on a stranger, and not very dependable one at that. She was a girl, after all, what could you possibly expect? He had to give her some credit, however, since she had managed to get him to the inn. He let out a moan when he turned his pounding head.

            Unfortunately, the girl had been too worn out to get her own room.

            "Damn." He cursed under his breath.

            She woke readily, blinking at him through half-lidded eyes. For a moment, she stared at him with an expression in her face he couldn't quite fathom. She looked suddenly angry and relieved and sad at the same time, before she shook her head and cleared her thoughts. Lazily, she smiled at him from where she had slept on the fancy dresser chair. "Hey."

            He frowned at her as she rose to open the curtains. A blast of foreign sunlight came shooting at his eyes and he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. "Shut them. It's too bright."

            "You like the dark?" she asked softly.

            "Better than the light." He mumbled into the pillow. 

            He heard her laugh before the room was driven into shadows again, making it seem like the darkest of night. A few footsteps, and she stood at the foot of his bed, looking down at him with a smug little grin that for some reason infuriated him to no end. "I told you so," she said, with her I-told-you-so tone of voice. "It's worse that you're not even a morning person. Now you've got to deal with a pretty bad hangover too, from the looks of it." 

            He sat up, noticed with dismay that his hair was awfully astray. Scowling at her, he asked, "Why the hell are you in my room?"

            She rolled her eyes. "It's my room, actually. I couldn't find your wallet to pay for a room. You certainly wear a lot for just a common drifter." She pointed at a bundle of cloth on the dresser table, and as his eyes focused he noticed that the pile was a stack of neatly folded clothes. Strangely enough, they looked really familiar…

            He flushed madly and looked under his blanket. To his great relief, his pants were still on. Letting out a sigh, he heard her only laugh. "What are you laughing at?" 

            Her face was bright when it laughed, like the sun although it was dark. "You looked like some nervous teenage boy back there. You practically jumped. What made you such a nervous wreck anyway?" 

            He flushed again. "I thought…you…"

            Her eyes widened when she blushed, and she blushed when his voice trailed off. "L…like I would do that to you. I'm a lady, after all, not some barmaid interested in getting laid." Her eyes flashed anger. "You thought what?"

            He shook his head tiredly. "I didn't think that far."

            "You don't seem to think much at all, so I guess not."

            He almost growled. "What is that supposed to mean?" He paused. "Nevermind, I know what that means, but if you're trying to get me angry, I won't even bother." He nodded at the dresser. "Could you get me those clothes?"

            She looked at him strangely. "Why? Can't you get them yourself."

            Embarrassed, he ducked his head. "My head hurts like hell."

            She smiled. "Oh."

            "Thanks for…the room, I guess. But you should have taken the bed. It's your room and not mine, after all." He shrugged carelessly. It had been a while since he had thanked anyone.

           Her laugh was crystalline. "You were the one who was drunk. So you got the bed." She said simply. "But you're welcome, I guess."

            "The wallet is in my pocket, though." He said blandly and sarcastically. "Did you even think of checking there, by any chance?" 

            She blinked and shrugged, retrieving his scarf, jacket and shirt for him. As she leaned over the edge of the bed to hand it to him, the door burst open without warning or grace. "Hey, 'Gin! The old geezer told me to…" The new, fresh and male voice halted in mid-sentence. Jet looked between the crook of the girl's arm and her waist, saw that the intruder was a strangely haughty and stocky man. 

            "What?" She turned around and realized who it was. Her gaze dropped down to the floor and she began to turn scarlet. 

            "Wow, 'Gin…I didn't know you were that aggressive." 

            He was decked in tribal clothing and grinned from under his yellow striped headband. When he began to laugh, the feathered necklace on his bare chest began to shake with mirth. 

            "What are you doing here?" The girl straightened, and turned around. Her face and neck had burned up in an admirable display of crimson-red skin. She stepped away from the bed as rapidly as she could, dropping Jet's clothes on his lap in the process. "Y…you were supposed to be in the other room!"

            The man laughed a deep and bellowing laugh. "Yeah, well I was, but decided to check up on how the little lady was doin'. Didn't think I was…interrupting something." He coughed and laughed and resorted to snickering. "But if you were so preoccupied, I'll just leave you alone to do whatever you were…up to before I so rudely barged in."

            "It wasn't like that!" she defended, almost hysterically. "You pervert, get your mind out of the gutter!" She looked like she was going to burst in a moment and splatter red and green all over the room. Jet readied his grasp on the edge of the covers, just in case that really happened. It wasn't very likely, but this was Filgaia, and for all he knew pigs really could fly, or wear guerilla warfare gear, at least. [1] 

            "Aww, c'mon, you don't have to lie to lil' ol' me! I know a good time when I see one."

            "It wasn't!" she shrieked, turning more scarlet by the minute.

            "So, how did you like it, your first time?" came the sly retort.

            "Pervert, pervert!"

            He was going to pass out. It was really so quiet before.

            The man laughed loudly again. "He's a good lookin' one at least. The last guy who tried his moves on you was sort of a no-brainer. He was uglier than the bottom of my shoe. I swear I was so glad when you turned him down. I thought he was gonna rap at our door until dawn until you agreed to go out to the bar with him. Really, the nerve of some people, asking such a pretty lady out when..."

            "Pervert!" she yelled.

            The man shrugged, and truly noticed him for the first time. That bright and wide smile dropped off his face, into the floor, and then down, down to the depths of the underworld. The color drained from his face with startling quickness. Self-consciously, Jet turned around to see if some huge three-headed demon had suddenly materialized behind him and was about to pounce. 

            There was nothing in the corner but darkness. 

            "Hey...'Gin…"

            The girl noticed where he was looking too. Her face drained, and her look faded back into that sorrowful one she had on when she had first awoken. Her eyes suddenly flared with alarm, and she turned back to where her friend stood in the doorway, seething with rage. He looked like a wild bull and Jet lay right in its horned path. "Stop, don't…don't! Calm down!"

            Jet watched her as she rushed to the once-laughing man and held him back by his arm. He charged anyway, except he covered no distance. The girl was stronger than she looked. A little afraid of such intense anger, Jet drew back to the edge of the bed and stared. His stomach knotted and his breath caught.

            "Why you little punk! You're going to show yourself now and…"

            "Stop, Gallows!" The girl tugged a little harder. "Calm down!"

            "You little…"

            Gallows. 

            _We've met before. _

            The world began to spin. Jet cried out in anguish when his head seemed to collapse in on his brain. Burying his face in his bare hands, he shook his head vigorously. "You…you…"

            Both Gallows and the girl stopped and froze, staring at him in bewilderment. He paid no attention them, as the world spiraled and spun before his very eyes. It flashed black and color, black and color. The lights seemed to be dimmer, dimmer than even the shadows. His forehead was on fire, and his ears rushed with befuddled sounds. What was happening to him? Was this part of having a hangover?

            Seeing old phantoms, was this part of having a hangover?

            Jet looked up at them with pained lavender eyes. "You weren't supposed to find me," he choked out. "How…how did you find me?" 

            The room flashed color, and then black. 

[1] – You know, those little pig monsters? I can't recall their exact name, but they're the ones with the "Pork Chop" attacks? Usually, when you spot them, they're with these tree monsters.


	2. Fermata

Disclaimer: Standard applies.

A/N: I have no clue how long this is going to be. Thanks to everyone who told me about Orcs. 

Warnings: Subtle spoiler alert, especially in this chapter, hopefully not too much OOC-ness. 

The Cadence

__

Fermata – Prolongation

He was – that had been the sole statement that he lived by. He existed for the sole reason of living, and lived for the sake of existence. There was not, and had never been, anything more complicated than that. He could have wasted time trying to put his thinking into philosophical jargon, but most of the time he had always been too hungry, too tired, too busy, too alone. 

Then, he had been pulled willy-nilly into a group of three until it became a group of four.

He never realized exactly how it had happened. One moment, he had rolled into a baggage compartment of a rushing train and the other he was snagged in deadly triangle. A gun was at his throat, and his Airgetlahm stared levelly into the throat of a stranger. [1] Three safety clicks sounded off, drowned out as the locomotive wheels beat furiously on the tracks. 

Four heads turned. Four strings were pulled deftly by aged fingers into one silken thread. 

That which controlled fates, too whimsical and capricious to undo its own handiwork, pulled and pulled with all its might to ensure the combining of the strings. One time, a rebel tugged out meekly, but it was gripped and forced into the pattern again. Yet, it was always that string, that naughty little string, which wished to break free.

_I was thinking, perhaps, that we could work together._

He should've been the one to protest, when the first "team" had been uttered. Yet, it was suddenly all so different in this group of four, so closely knit that it had become almost a unit of one. The sense of self pacified, settled in the back of his darkest thoughts. He would have fallen under the illusion that he had been happy, if he were not the rebel string.

He had thrived for freedom, for tangle-less paths and uncrossing roads. He had breathed and ate and drunk into oblivion for it. This need and lust for the self, and only the self, never released its shackles. Eventually, he succumbed and drifted away, until the day for his leaving came before the passing of dawn, but by then he was so far gone that the night after that day hardly seemed different at all. 

For him, at least.

He didn't know what they thought, for he was gone, for he was the rebel string.

"Uh…" he groaned, and a sudden ripe flood of raw pain gripped his senses. Something in his stomach had curled and knotted. He arched his back slightly against the sheets, dug his head deeper into the musty pillow. 

"So you finally decide on coming to, huh, kid?"

He stilled and tensed immediately, and was afraid to open his eyes because he was scared of what he would see. It took a moment for him to remember this feeling of utter terror. He let out a short breath and muttered, "Gallows."

"The one and only," answered the man brightly.

Jet lifted his eyelids slowly; growing accustomed to the dimmed afternoon sun. Bluntly, he asked, "Are you going to punch me?"

Gallows laughed, obviously seeing something highly amusing in the situation. Porcelain beads tied to the end of painted feathers clicked against each other as he shook his head, accompanied by the small shuffle of cloth. "No, punk. She told me not to, so consider yourself lucky. But don't let down your guard. I'll get you back somehow, don't you worry. Caradines live up to their promises."

Jet stared at the ceiling and its yellow, peeling paint. If he calculated correctly, he had been past the boundaries of awareness for at least six hours. Damn, he had missed his train at a quarter past one. "Really..." He said blandly. "Oh."

Gallows grunted in disapproval. "Almost three years and all you say is 'oh'? Well, for your information, it's nice to see you again, Jet." He paused, and then his deep and powerful voice struck up again, followed by a few spurts of sonorous but hardly mirthful laughter. There was a strain his voice when he spoke. "Well…'nice' isn't exactly the word I'd use. 'Pain in the ass' is more like it, for my case." 

"It's a pain in the ass to see you again too."

Gallows grinned when the other pulled the covers over his shoulders and abandoned his tension. Of course, they had not progressed very far from their fiery encounter in the morning, but at least Jet was sure that he wouldn't be attacked this time around. Perhaps there was still some hope for the lot of them yet, he thought optimistically. "Well, I didn't expect a much different sort of reply from you." He joked.

"It'll be nice to leave you again too." The other added callously.

Or perhaps not.

Gallows frowned, not even bothering to sigh. Exasperation was wasted on the bed-ridden drifter. It would reflect off that permanent scowl and rebound off the walls. The man willed himself not to anger himself because he had promised his travelling companion. He had to, actually, or otherwise the girl would have never agreed to leave the room and get a decent amount of sleep that a dresser chair couldn't provide.

The door opened.

Jet heard the delicate clicking of boots, and the telltale tinkling that chains and guns made. He cursed under his breath and bid his eyes to shut. 

The stranger laughed and stopped at the edge of the bed to stand beside Gallows. With an audible thump, he set his gun down on the floor and leaned on its support casually. "Still not the morning person, I see." The not quite stranger said. The voice had not changed at all. It was still learned and accented with sophistication. It was a little softer, perhaps, with its wear and the passing of time. "I know you're awake."

Stubborn eyes remained closed. "Well, what the hell do you know, I'm overjoyed." He snapped cynically. There was no humor in his dry and cracking, tired and hurt voice. It was merely weary and irritated. "This is just turning into one grand old reunion party. The next thing you know, we'll just all slap 'teamwork' stickers on our foreheads and head out again to find righteousness or some crap like that."

"Look here, you little…" Gallows growled angrily.

Clive held the younger man back with a calm hand on his shoulder and that was all it took to quiet him. Something in Jet's chest began to writhe – they knew each other so well now. He was just an outsider with a familiar face. "For your information," said the older none-too-kindly, though the voice was still as reserved, "We don't and didn't need your assistance for that. We defeated the prophets a couple months after you decided that cooperation was too much for you to handle."

Jet pushed himself on to his elbows angrily as the words struck true to their quivering target. "You…you don't know what you're talking about."

Clive lowered his eyes to the young man's face and with that glance sent a shrill coldness that was one thing not familiar. Jet almost shrank back into his covers. "Is that so? I don't, do I? If you say so, then I suppose that must be true. After all, it is you who would know yourself best, isn't it? Care to tell us a little more about yourself?" 

Clive was mocking him – mocking him for the fact that he knew nothing.

This, even dense Gallows could pick up. He looked down and smiled victoriously. If there were a lower degree of helplessness to feel at the moment, Jet would have doubted it. He was resorted to glaring up at his former teammates and noticed with much dismay that his arms were trembling. Seething and headache smarting, he hissed, "What do you want, then? Don't tell me this is some charity project you three are launching off at now."

Clive smiled humorlessly. "Actually, we're on our way back to Humphrey's Peak. We happened to meet you completely by chance."

Gallows laughed. "The old geezer's achin' for the home life again."

Aforementioned geezer cleared his throat and hit Gallows soundly in the shins with the butt of his gun. The younger man let out a low howl of pain. Jet almost had the powerful urge to smile. "Actually," said the scholar, "that is true, to some extent. I believe I'm getting much too old for this travelling business. Or at least I'm much too tired. I might be able to travel again someday, but for now, I am content to return home and spend time with my family." 

There was this great blissful glaze that covered Clive's eyes when he spoke of his family that Jet could see even from behind the small glasses. This look sparked little tendrils of envy curling up Jet's train of thoughts. It was the look that said, 'I have a family, a home. I have somewhere to go to when I'm tired and hungry. I have someone to turn to when I'm lonely and hurt. And this makes me happy.'

And that made him jealous.

"That's…nice." He managed to say.

Clive let out a loud laugh. "That's the first positive thing he's said since he woke up!"

Gallows was going to give him some clever answer, but there came a knocking at the door. It opened slightly, a muffled voice stating, "This is the maid, sirs. I've brought the medicine you asked for and I'm going to place it on the dresser." The wooden door opened just a crack, and a fine and delicate set of hands, followed by slim and pale wrists placed a silver tray inside the room before it disappeared again.

Gallows' drool pooled on the floor and he was gone in a flash.

Jet scoffed. "Well, he isn't much for changing with time."

Clive nodded softly, and took the seat Gallows had been occupying. There were a few gray hairs hear his ears that clustered enough to be visible. The dim light reflected off his glasses at such an angle that his eyes were hidden in their sheen. Jet noticed that the man looked much, much older and much more tired. He wondered, for a moment, if the past three years had been hard on him, and if it were hard on Clive – who was no doubt the strongest of their group – then what it must have done to the others.

There was no guilt, only wonder.

"You're old." The young drifter said flatly.

Clive chuckled. "Still as frank, I suppose. You aren't much for change yourself." 

Jet shrugged and rolled around under the blanket. He noticed then, that his clothes were at the dresser beside the bed still. He had fainted before he could put them on, after all. Slowly, he adjusted the pillow and rolled back around, sitting upright before leaning back. "I don't really care. Change isn't always a good thing, anyway." 

"Change has its own merits, but it doesn't mean one must be in a rush to change right away. It comes with time, and at the right moment. I believe that you will be changing also, except you haven't acknowledged your time to do so yet." Idly, the man pushed the frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We all change. There is nothing that can stop it, ignore it or withstand it. It is as great a force as time." 

Jet huffed. "You're beginning to talk like an old man too."

Clive laughed, a laugh free of restrictions. He decided to tread on subjects less delicate, one with which he didn't have to walk on cracking ice. "The prophets were actually demons and were trying to build an empire on Filgaia for the demon race. A strange lot, they were. Janearth too, started working for them, and turned into a demon himself. It was a horrible thing to see, his haunted eyes, begging for the end. And then the end came, and the prophets failed, and that was that." 

"A demon." He murmured, with shock lacing his voice. A human who became a demon, who had thought of that? Holy people who turned out to be devils, who had thought of that? It was a lot to comprehend, and he pushed it off until later. Later would come in a few minutes, months or years, perhaps, if it came at all. It wasn't his business anyway, was it? He hadn't any part in that wild goose and golden egg chase. "Gallows' brother?"

"Has become a full-fledged priest, I believe. Better than Gallows could become by far. And he's not annoyed one bit. In fact, he's been boasting everywhere he's gone about his younger brother and his priesthood and all that. In a way, Shane becoming a priest finally gives him the full freedom to wander as he pleases. I bet the poor boy's already acquired a healthy fanclub without knowing it."

"Maxwell?"

"Which one?"

"The one that isn't a total klutz."

"She is a good leader and she had changed too. She is hardly the klutz you remember."

Jet shrugged at Clive's smile. "Whatever. What happened to Werner?"

"Is not with us anymore, I'm sorry to say." Clive paused to let the words sink in. Their party of three had met the man a few battles into the war with the prophets, and the truth about him still rocked them in their shoes. All the details he would tell the boy later. It would not be a wise thing to tell him everything at once, for the man had been a father figure to more than just his daughter many years back. "He was never quite with us, but he is gone now." [2]

Jet smiled ruefully. "So the old man kicked the bucket…well I guess he could watch over his family now, then, couldn't he? I guess he won't be rambling any more complaints about that."

Clive said, "He was an honorable man." He didn't care to say that Maxwell had been watching over his family after his death longer than Jet could have guessed.

"Your wife? Kaitlin?"

"Fine. Kaitlin is doing well in her studies." He said, with the pride of a father.

"Your professor?"

Clive smiled. "You remember much more about us than I though you would."

Jet scoffed half-heartedly. There was this eerie sort of sorrow in his eyes that was not quite there. Whatever reaction the boy had to the truckload of news that was bombarded on his head, he was hiding it well. Then again, Jet had always hidden things especially well. "Whatever. It's not like I try to remember or anything, so don't get the wrong idea. I just happened to think of it."

"If you say so."

Jet scowled. "I say so."

The smile did not fade, but grew dimmer in its demeanor. Clive and the other two were very good at hiding also. For a moment, he thought back to a place in the middle of nowhere and wondered how long this respite would last. For the name of the place itself was a taboo, and it could and probably would break everything Jet believed in. 

'Deus Ex Machina' was the god that solved the plot for the protagonist – the god that could send a boy's world shattering to the ground. [3

"He would have been glad to know that Filgaia is now no longer dying. The demon race is beginning to die out. You must have noticed, being that you travel in the wilderness all the time. Strangely enough, the elimination of the prophet's headquarters caused a chain reaction when their advanced ancient technology exploded. The climates are becoming moist, do you notice that? The demons can't survive with so much hydrogen in the air. It burns their organs from the inside, so they are all dying out. Within a year, I'm sure, they'll all be gone."

"Gone? You mean…they'll just be wiped off the face of this planet?"

Clive nodded solemnly. 

Jet contemplated for a moment, but Clive already heard the words in his ears before a voice spoke it out loud. "And then," he whispered, looking at the floor, "There will be no more drifters, will there?" 

"For a while afterwards, perhaps. People will still be afraid. But after that, probably not. There will be travelers, many more than there are drifters, and that term will simply fall into disuse." Clive looked to his left and found a forlorn expression on Jet's face. 

It was the expression that came with the misery when one realized that their identity would be lost to an unstoppable torrent. 

Jet felt his heart plummet to the depths of the earth. If drifters were to fall into nonexistence, what was left of him then, but a homeless, landless, soulless boy? Using his ARM – the only thing he had ever been any good at – would have no practical use. There would merely be his weapon, himself, the desert, and death. He should have been overjoyed, perhaps, that there would be no scourge plaguing Filgaia, but something held him back from doing so. Instead of joy, there came an almost unbearable sense of loss. 

"Oh."

"Oh?" said Clive softly. "Is that all?"

Jet answered dully, "Oh."

The door opened again.

"Eh, I didn't know you two were talking!" said the girl from the bar – the one with the chestnut braid. Both men looked up and their eyes met her quickly flushing face. She tried to smooth down her skirts with no avail and instead used her eyes to dart from one aspect of the room to the other – the mirror, the curtains, the tiles, anywhere but on the bed. "If I'm interrupting anything, I can just go down to the…"

Clive suddenly stood up and stretched his neck conspicuously. He yawned as if he had seemingly spent hours in the room. Jet looked up and noticed that the minute hand of the clock had only gone from three to six. The scholar bent and picked up his bulky gun from the floor and leaned it against himself. With extremely mock surprise, he exclaimed, "My, look at the time! I've been here for hours."

"No, you…" Jet began, but was silenced with one of those shut-your-mouth-or-you'll-be-leaking-water-the-next-time-you-drink looks that he still remembered Clive was so good at giving, even with that utterly creepy smile on the man's face.

"As I said, I'm so tired! Well, Jet," he turned and faced the boy with fake flourish. When his back was turned to the girl, Clive's face became dark, a warning to the younger man that if anything were to happen to the chestnut-haired maid, a certain silver-haired boy's neck would be the one to pay. "I'll have to leave you now, rather than bore you with my long speeches." He laughed merrily. "I'll be going now to check on lazy Gallows! Rest well!"

He exited the room humming like a child, leaving Jet screaming 'Bloody murder, you're a rotten traitor, Clive!' in his mind, and a flustered young lady in the doorway.

"Hi." She said, after what must have been at least ten minutes.

"Yo." He answered.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, while she took a few tentative steps towards him. He said nothing about it but watched her intently, for he had the feeling that if he were to open his mouth, she would run away. It wasn't as if he wanted her company, of course, but she had saved him from the bar thieves at least, and he owed her some credit, after all. Amazingly, she was able to get to the foot of his bed without her tail between her legs.

"Fine." He answered curtly. "Thanks, you know, for…the room, and for letting me stay here and all, I guess. It probably isn't that inconvenient for you. And…uh…" He reassured himself that he was, indeed, not stuttering. "…Thanks for not getting mad for…that stuff I said this morning about what I thought…you know?"

He was definitely _not_ stuttering or thanking anyone within a ten-mile radius. Oh dammit, he definitely was, and felt all the more stupid for acting like a child. 

She smiled sweetly and he was sure he would be the one to blow up this time around. He almost warned her to grab a blanket to cover herself when that happened, but noticed that the only blanket in the room was covering his half-bare body. For modesty's sake, he kept quiet about that. 

"You're welcome." She answered. "Very welcome."

He shrugged and the clock ticked and tocked.

"It's nice to see you again." She said suddenly. Bravely, all remnants of that shy girl at the door were lost and there stood a strong and headstrong young woman standing at his bed – a relatively attractive young woman with a very familiar face. There was no fear in her eyes, or blame or regret. There was simply the gladness of being reacquainted with an old friend. 

Jet felt his ribs grab at his heart at the blatant emotion – or lack of one particular emotion specifically, in her face. She told him without words that there was no blame to be placed on anyone's shoulder. She said with that look that there was no anger between them, or anything that could be identified as similar to fury at all. Like a true friend, she continued to smile that sunny grin and Jet said nothing, but only because there was nothing needed to be said.

Feeling the silence in the air, however, he muttered, "It's nice to see you too."

"It's been a while." 

Jet looked at her incredulously. "Virginia," he began, and noticed this was the first time he had said her name in gods-know-how-long. It was a familiar sound and sent a rush of warmth to his ears. "I would think that you'd come up with a better answer than that."

She laughed. "Well, it's hard to talk to someone who doesn't talk back." 

"I'm talking right now, aren't I?"

"Well, I suppose. But you're still not much for conversation."

"You said that already. Last night."

She nodded. "I didn't think you would remember that, with a hangover and everything. I didn't even think you were listening. I thought you were too drunk by then."

He looked at the floor. "I listen when you don't think I am. I don't think it's just a hangover. I've had hangovers before, and I was never out this long. It's something else."

Her eyes grew worried. "What? Are you sick, injured?" He looked at her calmly, and sent her gaze fleeing to the floor. She knew immediately that Jet suffered from no physical ailment. "Oh." She whispered almost mutely. "Well, if you don't feel so well, I can get you something to drink, or leave you alone to rest for a while, if you'd like. It really isn't a bother, and I shouldn't have kept you up talking so long yesterday."

"Whatever." He said tiredly. "I'm fine. I'll have to get up anyway."

"What for?" she asked. 

Jet gave her a flat look. "As if you don't know."

She stared at him with a strange gleam in her eyes that had not been there before. As he began to shuffle out of the bed covers and walk towards the dresser for his clothes, she spoke. "But you can't." she mumbled, but even though it was a mumble it had the force of twenty voices. "You can't, not after all the trouble we went through to look for you."

"Clive said you were just passing by."

She shook her head. "Clive is a shameless liar. You can't just abandon us and leave us hanging. Not now, and not again." 

That last fragment petrified his legs until they were granite and stone. Without facing her, he could see the reflection of her back in the dirty mirror. It was unwavering. "I can't?" he said, although the dull voice it was delivered with made it more a statement, perhaps, than a question. "Who says I can't?"

"I say so." 

He was silent.

"And you know so."

[1] – Anastasia's "Argetlahm" of WA2 was changed to "Airgetlahm" for Jet. 

[2] – Spoilers for Virginia's father, who is actually dead (I think) throughout the game. 

[3] – Spoilers for the area near the end. Alcahest tells Jet his past in this dungeon, supposedly. 


	3. Accelerando

A/N: I'm not dead yet, but inspiration has run dry, so I apologize. I don't know by what calendar Filgaia goes by, so I will impose the Roman one, so if I get reviews criticizing that, I will happily ignore them. 

Warnings: Mild language. I would believe the romance starts soon, and I haven't a clue how to write it.

The Cadence

__

Accelerando – Quickening

Somewhere illogical, he wondered what day it was, and how long it had been since the crack of dawn. He had begun counting after the first time he visited Boot Hill alone, looking for a place to rest. He dared not ask the kindly old inhabitants of the white farmhouse for lodging and instead had slept at the newly built inn. Since then, it had been two years, two months and twenty-one days. 

It was August the thirteenth. 

There was a great difference between waking up in one's room alone and waking up in one's room alone when there are phantoms sleeping next door. Some of the more casual differences would be the soft humming of an early riser on the balcony outside, or the small relief that not a penny had been wasted in renting a room that wasn't one's own. One of the more extreme differences would be the following afterthought. It usually went something like this: oh _shit_, if I'm sleeping in her bed, where did she sleep last night?

Feeling restless, he pushed himself on to the brittle floor and realized with a relieved sigh that the hangover and whatever else had plagued him was now gone. This meant that he was no longer unable to leave and drift away. This meant that since the room was conveniently vacated with the exception of himself, he could just gather his things and leave before realization hit any of them. This meant no time for second thoughts or doubts.

Of course, this implied that no one was allowed to enter the room three seconds later.

"Are you going now?"

Jet looked up and stared into the mirror at his reflection, and at hers standing in the doorway. His face darkened and he scolded himself that second thoughts were strictly not allowed. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble anyway." Nonchalantly, he gathered up his jacket and added, "Where did you sleep last night anyway?"

He would have guessed that by the way her shoulders seemed to slump that she was none too thrilled. Then again, he didn't really know her if what Clive said about 'change' was true. He brushed it off and slipped into his jacket, neglecting the way she wouldn't look at him. She said, "I slept in Gallows and Clive's room. Gallows slept on the floor and let me have the bed."

"How nice." He drawled sarcastically. Before he pushed past her and into the hallway, he slipped some coins into her hand. "This is for letting me stay in your room." He explained, as she looked at the contents of her palm with an expression that betrayed nothing. "It was real nice and thank you and all that polite crap. I'll be going now."

"Going without the decency to say 'goodbye?'" She muttered. 

He shrugged. "Goodbye."

He was at the foot of the stairs, when she spoke. Turning around, he saw that she was still at the doorway, leaning against its frame and staring intently at him prepare to descend. Her mouth was pressed into a thin and straight line and it was hardly believable that such a mouth could produce so beautiful a laugh. Strangely enough that was what she did – she looked at him and began to laugh. This sound, which held no humor, was still a frighteningly nice sound to hear.

He frowned at her. "What the hell are you laughing at?"

She shook her head and snatched his gaze. There was something in her leveled stare that was promising – what it promised he didn't know. She took a step forward tentatively, but also retreated a step back and things were just as they started. "Where are you going to go?"

His fist clenched and he glared forcefully. "Why does it matter?"

She nodded understandingly. "Oh, so you're leaving with no destination. Are you just going to follow whichever directly the wind blows? Because you have no home to return to, and you haven't even a mission to follow." She shrugged at his hostile expression. "I find it…a little pointless, don't you? To not have any leads or any purpose. Don't you want to go 'home'?" 

She had known, of course, from the moment she opened her mouth, exactly which nerve was her target and exactly how to extricate anger from this taciturn man. 

He emitted a low, almost feral growl. "Watch it…"

She did not dare back down. "I heard that you're quite an outlaw these days. There are rumors that a thief-drifter foiled some big research experiment they were doing down at Destiny Ark." She mentioned off-handedly, "Some witnesses say the drifter had silver hair too." Her eyes wandered to his head and the messy bangs obscuring his forehead. "What did you do?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't owe you an explanation." Pausing, some sheet of ice suddenly gave away. With a sigh, he turned away from her. "They were going to try to redo the experiments in the Leyline Observatory. They were going to try and…" He frowned and forbid himself to think anymore, to remember anymore. "And it doesn't matter to you what I did. Drop it." 

"I was just curious."

"Don't be." 

Virginia opened her mouth to protest, but the door three rooms behind them suddenly burst open, and Gallows stumbled out. They turned to face him, and stared quizzically as he scrambled off the floor. Clive came backing out of the door after him, shooting a few rounds into the innocent room. With a great swing, the Baskar priest threw a pair of silver handguns into the air. At the end of a graceful arc, Virginia's eyes widened with acknowledgement and she caught the weapons.

"What are you…"

"Come with me!" Virginia ordered, and he was compelled to listen. Hastily, she brushed past him and grabbed his hand in the process, before proceeding to weave through the crowded restaurant below the inn. Jet was buffeted by shoulders and waiter's trays and obscure chair legs the whole time. In annoyance, he let out a continuous string of colorful curses, lost in the surprised shouts of the customers. All the while, his female companion maneuvered through the spaces as if she were wind itself. 

He asked no questions until they were out in the sun parched main road of the town. "What the hell is going on?" he shouted as she pulled him along with amazing force for a girl and led them through the streets. When the masses swarmed too thick to get through, Virginia abruptly pulled out her gun and shot a round into the air. The townspeople screamed and fell to the floor to cover their heads and she jumped across them. He could hardly keep up with her, his surprise slackening the rate of his steps considerably. 

She didn't answer him until they were in the outskirts of town. He almost collided with her back when she came to a sudden halt behind a small sand hill. They bent over together, gasping for breath. Angrily, he shook his hand away from hers and stared at her pointedly, demanding an answer. 

She smiled, her mouth slightly parted as she took in air. Her flushed face and the bright sheen in her eyes dissipated his fury before it could even start. "Gallows and Clive should be coming soon."

"What the _hell_ was that?" he repeated. "Why were you being chased?"

She shrugged offhandedly and beamed at him. "Well, what would you do if I told you that you weren't the only outlaw around here?"

He gaped.

She laughed. "Oh, I see. Ha…well, there was this complication before the defeat of the prophets, you see, and we got blamed for it. We really didn't have much time to explain, so we just took off. And officially, we're 'wanted outlaws' known all over Filgaia by now." She began to brush the dust off her dress. "Honestly, sometimes these town governors really abuse their propaganda! And our pictures in the 'wanted' posters didn't even catch my good angle…"

He choked. "Wha…what?"

Shoulders shaking with mirth, she said, "That was a joke."

"You…outlaws?"

"Well, not very coherent, are we?" Clive echoed, as he emerged from the peak of the hill and looked down. He smiled, turned his head backwards and called loudly, "They're here, Gallows! I found them!" Soon enough, another head joined the first and produced the image of a comically smug set of faces looking down at him from above. 

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Jet slumped down and cradled his head in his hands. "I have a really bad headache right now." 

Gallows laughed. "Hey look, the kid doesn't have enough brains to handle it."

"And I thought you were all for that heroic stuff too." Jet muttered, pressing his palms into his eyes. "Outlaws, ha, that's a joke." 

An exchange of wry and eager looks passed between Virginia and her two comrades. She stepped and kneeled, leaning forward to slip her hands around his wrists and pulling his fingers away from Jet's eyes as he gave her a look of suspicion. She smiled gently. "Come with us, Jet." That was the first time she said his name and his eyes widened slightly, searching and held back. "Come with us again, because we have no where to go either."

His brows creased and he almost pulled away from her except that her grip was surprisingly tight and desperate. His eyes darted fearfully from one face to another and found nothing but smiles and encouragement. And this scared him, left him confused and angry and limp at the same time. The sun overhead bore into their skins with merciless heat. 

"I'm hallucinating." He said flatly, taking the time to glare at them all in turn.

"No, you're not!" Virginia protested, pressing the pads of her fingers into his forearm.

He shook his head, disbelieving. "You don't have to be nice. I'm not expecting you to forgive me and welcome me back or anything stupid like that. I didn't expect to even see any of you again. I can fully understand how…distrusting you guys are of me. I mean, abandonment isn't any nice thing for all that 'teamwork' stuff you guys thought was so important back then. If this is a joke, I'd really like it to end now." He laughed humorlessly. "This is some punchline, you know." 

Clive shook his head and Gallows grinned. "You're really stupid, punk. It's only 'cause Ginny was against it that I didn't beat the stuffing outta you at the inn."

"No, that's not it." Said Virginia. She pinned his stare down forcefully. "I…we don't blame you for anything. You were never obligated to stay, but…"

He was skeptical.

"We're saying," Clive rescued, "that we would like it if you were to join again."

"Me? Why do you want me to join up with you?"

"Well, we're all outlaws, so we could help each other!" Virginia piped up, and her vibrancy made her seem exactly like the girl who was barely a woman that he remembered from long ago. Her heart was poured out in her almost fevered persuasion. 

"You don't want me there." He retorted. "I'd leave you all again."

Her face fell, but she smiled anyway and nodded sadly. "Yes, you might. But we'll have to try, first, or otherwise we wouldn't know for sure."

He did not answer and instead turned away. He had no words to answer, could hardly persuade himself to disagree, let alone persuading others. His gaze fell to the thirsty, dusty floor and lingered there, watching as even the slightest shuffle of air shifted the sand. He didn't know if he could last against all three faces that promised so much acceptance. He didn't know how much longer he could keep himself from believing it.

Because he wanted to fall, and he couldn't.

"Jet," she said his name again, and the traitorous part of him yelled again and again that he wished he could hear her say it again, after this day, this hour was over. "Stay. You have nothing to lose if you stay."

Still, he refused to answer.

Gallows scowled and scooted down the hill. Disapprovingly, he shot an annoyed glance to the mute and pulled Virginia up from her kneeling position. The girl hardly protested, for the silence had told her enough. She looked down at him, and her resolves fell, clattering to the floor. "I see." She muttered. "So that's the way you want it. Alright then." To his surprise, her voice never became shaky or wavered. She was so unbelievably strong. "Goodbye."

He thought he heard Gallows say, "Bad time to play hard to get, kid." 

Clive nodded at him before leaving. "It was nice seeing you again," he said flatly.

And they began to walk away.

"Where are you going?"

Virginia didn't turn. "To Humphrey's Peak." Clive and Gallows looked at him expectantly. 

Jet sat against the sandhill without budging. "Alright. Goodbye."

"I wish you had a bar in this place." Gallows whined, strolling into the welcoming town as if he were the celebrity that everyone wanted to meet. Hands behind his head, leaning back just slightly as he walked, he gave the impression of perfect and unruffled ease. "You need something to liven it up, you know. It's as if everyone here is as old and sensible as you, old man."

Clive smiled demurely, pushed his glasses up his nose. "No, it's just that no one here is as…apt to irresponsible behavior as you are, my dear friend." 

Gallows was about to protest, when a very sweet little creature rushed out of the corner house and latched itself to Clive's leg with a metal death grip. "Daddy!" trilled Kaitlyn, burying her little flushing face into the fabric of his pants. "Mommy told me you were going to come back tomorrow like you said in your telegraph, but you're a day early!" She laughed and looked up, features brightening. "And you brought Uncle Gallows and Virginia too!"

The Baskar priest quirked a brow. "Uncle?"

Virginia laughed brightly. "Well, what did you expect to be called, Gallows? 'Brother'? 'Father'? I think 'Uncle' rather suits you, don't you think, Clive?"

Clive nodded solemnly, betrayed however by the small smirk on his face as he kneeled and scooped Kaitlyn into his waiting arms. She buried her little face in the crook between his jaw and his neck, giggling like a river. "Let's go tell Mommy now! She'll be so happy!" Clive took a few steps forward and she called back cheerily, "You too, Uncle Gallows, Virginia! Mommy will be glad to see you too!" 

Gallows' eye twitched subconsciously. "I'm not that old."

Virginia smiled and followed after the father and his daughter into a quaint little house build of stone and slate. Basked in the afternoon sun that was beginning to set, and painted warm inviting colors, it was a sight for sore eyes. The window curtains were open, the door was left swinging in Kaitlyn's wake, and a god-like smell of home-cooked food wafted from the kitchen inside. Virginia thought she could practically hear Clive's heart sing. 

Kaitlyn jumped out of her father's arms and trotted into the kitchen, reemerging a few moments later with a sweet looking woman in tow. Cathrine smiled softly as she looked up, and though she was neither in her prime or the most beautiful of women, that look alone brightened the whole room. "You're a day early." She murmured kindly. "It's…so nice to see all of you again. No wonder Kaitlyn was so excited when she came into the kitchen. Please, make yourselves at home."

"Well, our plans were a little off." Clive explained humbly. "And we were able to move quicker than expected, so therefore we arrived a day early. I hope you don't mind."

Catherine looked from one face to another and found that there were only three to look at. "Oh, no, not at all. I'm…sorry that your plans didn't go as planned." 

The female leader of their group waved her gloved hand vaguely. "It's nothing to be sorry about, Mrs. Winslet. It's nothing important anyway."

Kaitlyn opened her mouth. "But…" and then she shut it. 

Virginia beamed when Cathrine nodded in turn at Gallows and her in acknowledgement. It was not her home, but it felt just as comfortable. For a drifter, who had no real place to stay, the rare places like these were home enough. It wasn't often that they were welcomed warmly by people who still gave them their trust and fond remembrance. "Thank you. Gallows and I will be heading around to say hello to everyone again." With a tug, she dragged herself and her comrade outside, waving a, "Bye, I'll see you later!"

"Wait!" Kaitlyn called after them, tearing herself from her mother's protective arms and intertwining her fingers with the elder girl's. "I want to come too!"

Virginia nodded.

Once she was out the door, Cathrine looked sympathetically out at them. "It didn't work, did it?"

Clive sighed and looked out behind her, shifting as she leaned comfortably against his frame. He shook his head and held Kaitlyn's hand as the little girl stared curiously out the window. Gallows and Virginia were laughing as if the world would never end. Kaitlyn beamed along with them, but her smile was so much more pure. "No, it didn't."

"That's a shame….but why?"

"It wasn't time yet, I would guess. But, if that wasn't the time, the time will come sooner or later."

"How long will that be?"

"Days, months, years. I don't quite know, but it will come, and that's all."

Cathrine smiled. "She looks so…disappointed."

Virginia laughed outside and punched Gallows' arm lightly. "That's a horrible joke." She scolded half-heartedly. "What a thing to say! You're all hormones and brawn, you know."

"What are hormones?" Kaitlyn asked.

"Things that make you stupid." Virginia explained seriously, cocking her head to the side. "Like with _Uncle_ over there. That's all he has, instead of intelligence."

Kaitlyn laughed.

"That's not true. I got a lot of brains, don't you know?" With emphasis, he pointed to his right temple, flashing a cheeky grin. "Why, I bet that I'm smarter than the whole lot of you put together." He nodded to himself with reassurance and flamboyant confidence, winking to his companion. "Yup, that's right, Gallows Caradine is the brains of this group, cleverest man around. And sometimes, he's even the brawns too." 

She scoffed. "Right, and Virginia Maxwell is the tag-along cook."

His face grew comically serious. "But Gin, you can't even boil water right."

"Idiot." She muttered, and punched his arm again.

"Idiot!" Kaitlyn echoed.

"Aww, now look at what you did, Gin! You taught her naughty words!"

And so the dreary day pressed on, August the thirteenth. 

He eyed the thick glass mug suspiciously; watching as its pale contents frothed after it was poured and dribbled over the rim on to the polished table. It was his first, of course, and it would be his only, he was sure of that. Of all the things he desperately needed, another hangover like the last was certainly not one of them. Speaking of which…he downed half the cup in one shot, felt the liquid burn like fire inside and the rush of numbness began to seep to his head pleasantly.

Contrary to popular beliefs, there were very few barkeepers in existence who would actually lend a helping ear to those who needed to spill out their woes. In fact, most of them were just like the one trying to mop his elbows off the table again without raising busy-eyebrows and muttering unrepeatable complaints the whole time. This man tried to keep his counter spotless, yet every five seconds some fool spilled their drink. A tireless battle fought against a tireless enemy.

Just in spite of it, once the man swept away with his dirty rag in tow, he tipped his mug a little, just enough to create a puddle of liquor on the surface again. The man caught sight of this little crime (only after it had been committed) and glanced angrily at Jet's hooded back as the Drifter turned in his stool and looked innocent.

"Goddamn slobs, spilling half of what they pay for on my counter, droolin' on it like goddamn pigs." The man muttered with his heavy accent, being sure to be loud enough so Jet could hear.

"Something gets spilled every five seconds; don't you think you could let up on the mopping for a second or two, old man?"

The barkeeper ruffled indignantly. "Wouldn't be so goddamned dirty if only the slobs would stop spillin' their ale every five seconds! I should have the right to kick anyone out who dunnot clean up after themselves!"

The drifter suppressed a scoff, and decided to give a clever quip, before the door burst open and a waft of heavily heated afternoon air came drifting in. It was a bit more humid than it was years past, but still as dry as caked dust. Three figures hung in the doorway, silhouetted by the one'o'clock sun, but Jet could see the protruding line of the shotgun barrel from their black shapes.

The tavern refused to become unearthly still, even with their appearance. The other men carried on their drunken stupors of gambling and card playing and cheating. They laughed loudly and harshly, for these were men without the slightest sophistication. Then, the men shot two rounds into the ceiling. The drunkards froze. Even the barkeep stopped himself from complaining.

__

Shit. His hand drifted to his side, where the faithful ARM hung ready. He knew he shouldn't have taken the risk and reappeared in a public place so soon. And in the same bar in the same town too, what had he been thinking?

"We've gotten some leads to this run-down town regardin' a thief. Reward of seventeen hundred gella if you pathetic lot can tell me where Enduro is."

For a moment, the men looked confused, from one to the other their glances slid suspiciously. The name was foreign to their ears, and once again Jet was reminded the benefits of keeping a low profile. Silently, he wondered whether he would be able to slip himself into the shadows without anyone noticing, but the option was ruled out once he was sure that the whole place was so quiet that probably the clock had stopped ticking. 

"Never 'eard of Enduro." The barkeeper bellowed, regaining his spine. "And that roof…"

The tallest of the men, lanky and unshaved, pointed his smoking gun barrel at the man's head. "Enduro's in this goddamn bar, and you pigs better hand him over before I shoot you all through the head. He's got silver hair, you's got ta 'ave seen him. The color ain't natural."

Jet pulled the rim of his hood down tightly.

"Hey you, with the hood, you's lookin' shady!" remarked a poker dealer at the far end of the room. His words came out strange and twisted since a heavy cigar was tucked between his teeth as he spoke. Rich and wispy smoke smoldered out of the blackened end. "You's from outta town, ain'tcha? Don'tcha know who this Enduro fella is?"

If he could, Jet would have shot him.

"No." he replied calmly. "Never heard of that name. Only outlaw posters I've seen were those for Maxwell's gang."

The tall gunner laughed mockingly. His gun shifted on his shoulders, and from the audible click Jet knew the victim wasn't the barkeep. "That's old news, ain't nothin' new! Your whole lot's a stupid bunch, that's what you are. You, mister mysterious, why don'tcha take down yur hood?"

He couldn't shoot here, there were too many innocents involved. Even if they were stupider than cows and twice as bloated, they had no right to be stuck in the middle of a bullet dance with a hole in the middle of their foreheads, their eyes a glazed pain-stricken white as they stared unblinkingly at the floor. Drunkards they might be, he knew it just wasn't _right_. 

And he was also very much screwed, two times over, right now.

Jet dropped the Airgetlahm with a clatter and a scowl as the tall one flipped his hood down. 

"Well then, Enduro, ain't it? That hair color just ain't your touch, I'm 'fraid. Couldn't settle fer somethin' less obvious? Yur under official arrest." 


	4. Coda I

A/N:  I love you.  Anyone who has given me feedback and/or advice, marry me.  XD

The Cadence 

_Coda – End Movement One_

He had never been caught before.  He had broken the law at least twice a day and had stolen, lied, and cheated more times than he had used a gun.  He was always too quick, too lucky, too fast and always running away those countless times.  Therefore, there was something deeply depressing about the fact that he sat, not in a hotel room or a bar stool, but on the dank, musty and stained mattress of a prison cell.  

He sighed, shifted, and noticed with irritation that no matter how he twisted he could not feel the reassuring press of cold metal against his skin.  Where was the Airgetlahm?  Soggy sheets slid against his knees and the jagged lines of rock walls scrapped across his elbows, turning them raw and red.  The dripping air stank of dust and other things not so pleasant and he wondered if suffocation would be a better alternative to breathing. 

It was then, in putrid captivity, that he noticed how much he thrived on freedom.

There was one barred window, high enough to touch the ceiling but more importantly, high enough so that he couldn't reach it, providing feeble light.  If he stood at a certain angle facing it, he could see the boundless sky.  Looking at it, with his head against the wall, his knee drawn to his chest and his eyes half-lidded with a dreamer's fog, he decided that when he escaped, he would like to touch that sky.  

Sitting there, he forgot that a word such as "if" even existed.

Some time after his capture, while thinking (since he simply did not daydream) of birds with wings and drifting winds, he heard the jingle of keys accompanying the sound of sand being grated into the floor with his heel.  He turned his head slightly just in time to see the wooden door swing open with a rusty creak.  Through lowered eyelids, blurred with the restlessness, he saw a set of keys, hanging on a silver ring, and freedom.

"I never thought I'd see _you_ here," said Ian, fiddling with his broad-rimmed hat.

"That makes two of us," answered the prisoner, straightening his neck.  Even in the dark light, his hair was ghostly silver, lit by the high window until it was almost pure white.  Eyes darkened to a pitch black in the absence of the sun focused and narrowed.  "What do you want?"

Shrugging, "Nothing really.  Thought I'd come down here and reassure you of your rights to keep silent and all that, you know.  Formalities – can't avoid them.  Anyway, thought I'd tell you what you're charged with.  Mostly, it's just for theft but there was an account of your involvement in a murder case or somethin' of the sort."  

Jet let out a breath that seemed like a sigh and a laugh without humor.  Thievery and a murder case, was it?  He inwardly cursed and complimented the fool who was quick-minded enough to frame a well-known outlaw for his own crimes.  

"Weren't you a good guy back then?"

"No," he said, "I don't recall ever being something like that."

"Part of Maxwell's gang, though, weren't you?  That's a charge too.  Affiliation with an outlaw gang.  You were part of their group, weren't you?"

He chose to answer, or rather not answer, the inquiry with, "I won't be here for long."

Ian faced him with his back, kicking the toe of his boot against the hard floor and speaking so that he could neither see nor hear the rustle of fabric or the shadow that fell across his back.  "Eh," said he, under the scrutiny of darkened eyes, "That's what they all say, though most of them shut up after they've been here a day or two.  Most of them don't say a word two weeks after that, 'cause that's when most of them well…"  He made a vague gesture by sliding his hand across his throat.  

"You've caught many?" 

A little proud, he would have never turned his back on a prisoner before, but there was a sense of trust still in him.   "Caught a crazy thug two months back, said he was slaughtering livestock for the heck of seeing blood.  A year before that, I had arrested a cow thief and his handful of men and found almost a million gella worth of cattle, we did.   And then…"

Ian's words were muffled by gloved hands that snaked between the iron bars, grabbing his mouth and forehead before pulling back.  The sheriff's eyes fluttered closed when the back of his head, regardless of his bulky hat, came in contact with the iron bar.  "I have nothing against you," said Jet even as he gently lowered the prone form to the floor and slipped the silver keys out from a belt loop, "but I don't believe in this justice thing you follow."

He found his gun in a conspicuous labeled box right outside the door.  Making little work of the lock, he slipped the handle against his palm and pressed his finger on the trigger – just light enough not to shoot it.  This was his freedom – dependence on no one, the ability to protect oneself and therefore to do anything.  This was soaring, drifting, touching the sky.  

With a dropping heart (though it did not drop that far, since it had never been that high to begin with), he remembered that Clive said Drifters would cease to exist.  There would be time for settling down, and much-needed rest.  There would be time for gardening and watching the days lazily pass.  There would be time to go home.  Yet, he had no one to go home to, and not even a home itself.  The salvation of Filgaia meant little to him.  

In the midst of the clangor as he searched for stray bullets, he heard footsteps descending the stairs.  Because they paused and became light and wary, he supposed that the owner heard his own metal racket as well.  His shoulders tensed as he slipped behind a wooden pillar, away from view, and waited.  The footsteps increased in volume, came to a halt at the foot of the stairs and suddenly disappeared.  

For how many seconds he waited he forgot to count.  His mind was blurred with the humid air and the rush of adrenaline.  The silence confused and confounded him.  Had the intruder run back upstairs?  But he had not heard the retreating steps.  Had he frozen, was he standing in the doorway still?  But he didn't even hear the sound of breathing.  Suddenly, something warm brushed against his forearm.  

As quick as his muscles and instincts could allow, he turned around, flipping the safety lock of his gun.  Strangely enough, two clicks resounded in the air and it took him a moment's sight to realize that it was not that his gun had clicked twice.  The other had belonged to the gun that pressed against his forehead, between his brows, held by a person whose throat was kissed by the merciless mouth of the Airgetlahm.

"Who are you?" Jet asked.

"You're…the outlaw that was caught yesterday!  What happened to the sheriff?"

"He's...out," he answered, obviously irritated.  "Took a nap."

Eyes wide, perhaps the man saw the devil in the colorless hair and the unnatural eyes.  Maybe that was why he pulled the trigger.  Out of luck alone, Jet saw the finger twitch before it moved, and cocked his head in time so that the bullet only grazed the side of his head.  It was a man he didn't know, an unfamiliar face he didn't recognize.  Maybe because of that, mixed with the impulse of reflexes, he was able to counterattack.  

He didn't miss.  And why?  Why didn't he miss?

He stood even as the other fell and stared down at the face for the longest time.  Not too young and not too old, honest and bare and stubble-chinned, it was a face of a human.  The eyes were wide and white, the face pale with fear and sweat.  The tongue was stiff in his open mouth and he wondered idly if he would be able to hear the heart die away should he press his ear against the fallen chest.  He was clothed in simple attire, like a man who worked for a living, like a man who had heard something strange from the sheriff's office and decided to take a look.

He had a bloody hole in his throat, right below the chin.

Suddenly, the fact that the man had shot first didn't really matter.  

Throat dry and in a drunken state, though he hadn't an ounce of liquor in him, he stumbled out of the sheriff's office clumsily, with enough sense to slip into a hooded cloak and ran.  He had only broken the law twice today, but he had never run faster.  Through the empty streets, into the barren land, with his feet pounding and his heart pounding and his head pounding he ran and ran and ran, regardless of the ache in his legs or the pain in his head that must have been fear or the strange looks he was given, until he couldn't breathe and collapsed behind a sand dune.  

Though it was silent, the wind seemed to holler.  Each grain of sand, falling or brushing up against another, deafened him.  When he dropped his gun, he hardly noticed.  It was hot, because it was always hot in the desert, and the dune burned the back of his heck and arms, but he could hardly feel a thing.  He looked up and the view was hazy from heat.  All he could see was the sky, and the gaping hole right below the chin.  

Something burning slid down the side of his face and down the side of his neck, matting the collar of his jacket against his skin.  Reaching up and watching with half-lidded eyes as his fingers pulled away smeared with a thick rose red liquid, he remembered he was injured.  "Oh," he said, to no one in particular, and did nothing as blood mixed with sweat and exhaustion.  "Oh," he repeated blandly, "I should clean that up."

He stared at the sky again.

He hadn't many places to run.  It was amazing, really, how he had kept himself concealed for this long. The others had hometowns, but he dared not step in them, should he be caught for other reasons than breaking the law.  Once or twice, he had sought out Pike in the little town of Claiborne, because despite warnings and rumors about the terrible thief Jet had become, Pike always smiled, shook his head and asked how he was doing?  

"Maybe to Claiborne…" he murmured, though he did not hear it.

Then there came the whispering wind, echoing something he had heard yesterday.  "_To Humphrey's Peak," said a voice that was soft but fierce, wavering but stalwart.  Where are you going?  In the midst of the heat, after an escape fit for tall tales, early in the morning on August the thirteenth.  His destination had been set since yesterday.  He had decided earlier to take a more roundabout path, but time had escaped him.  _

Groaning, he told the wind to shut up, and did it rather loudly.  "To hell with Humphrey's Peak.  I'm going to Claiborne.  I'll to go Humphrey's Peak after."  He needed to talk to Pike, and wanted to hear the reassurance that he was sure Pike would give.  Perhaps Humphrey's Peak could've given it to him, but he needed to see a smile, a shake of the head.  He needed to answer a "How are you doing?"  

_I've been better._

He needed something familiar.  

He pushed himself up from the sliding sands and began to stagger.  The wind howled and threw sand.  He had hardly taken five steps when he realized something was wrong.  Turning around, he walked back the short distance he had come.  Weary, tired, and companionless, he picked up the Airgetlahm and started once again, the sun on his back and throwing his shadow ahead of him as he approached the horizon.  

"It's been a long time, I think."  The boy shuffled his feet, rippling the quiet evening air with the sound of dry hay crackling over dry hay as he undid a particularly adamant buckle on the worn leather in his hands.  He pulled the saddle off the white mare's back with a sigh, a pat and a heave before setting it on the low stable wall.  "A few months, wasn't it?"

"Three."  Jet answered without turning his bandaged head, leaning against the frame of the barn door, looking out into the night sky littered with stars.  He crossed his arms over his chest, uncrossed them and did it again.  The wooden frame scraped uncomfortably between his shoulder blades.  The Airgetlahm rested on a small wooden stool nearby; its mouth still stained a rosy red.

Pike smoothed down the short hairs on the horse's back and reached over to pick up a coarse comb.  "Yes, three.  Last time it was for my birthday, I think."  He nodded to himself as he thought, fingers on his right hand echoing the brush strokes from his right.  The horse made a small sound of appreciation, and it made him smile.  "Your birthday will be soon, won't it, Jet?  A month or so?  How old will you be then?"

The drifter turned inside.  The weak candlelight by which Pike worked flickered with the evening breeze, casting shadows on his pale complexion.  "I don't remember," said he, watching the flame with mild interest, "the birthday isn't even right.  You gave it to me last year.  It's not even true."

Pike shrugged.  "You needed a birthday to celebrate," he explained, matter-of-factly.  "Everyone needs a day to celebrate themselves."

Jet made a sound between a scoff and laugh, moving beside the candle and sliding down against a wooden post.  The red splinters were fruitless, unable to catch on a thread of his clothes.  Drawing one knee up to his chest and draping an arm over it, his head found a comfortable nest in the bend of his arm.  "What's today?  August fifteenth, isn't it?"

Pike answered, "I think so.  I'm surprised; you usually never know the date."  He laughed a little, patting the mare's back one final time as he hung the brush on the wall.  He stepped out of the stable softly, treading in the soft dirt, and came to sit beside Jet, on the other side of the candle stool.  They listened in the comfortable quiet of the night, with only the crickets outside to chirp since it was too late for birds.  The air was warm because of the burning wax, but cool from the late chill.  

Shrugging, "I looked at a calendar the day before yesterday in Little Twister."  He paused, eyes focused and looking at the flickering flame, but not seeing anything at all except for perhaps the sky and the hole.  Silence reigned for a moment, heavy with the words not spoken and the crackling of fire, before they settled back into comfortable small talk.  "Hey, Pike, Martina was back in the inn today."

"She came back two months ago with her supposed mother."

"Oh.  That's nice," came the rejoinder, a little distant.  Pike smiled at the slightest softening of his tone that a normal listener would never notice, but he was an expert at reading people, in their voices, demeanor and speech.  Jet always had a soft spot for children, after all.  "She's strong – Martina.  It's good she didn't let that prissy old lady get the better of her."  Leaning his head against the post, he added, "She would make a good drifter."

"Maybe."

"But she'll never be one.  She's got too much here that isn't worth leaving behind.  People like that, who have that, don't become Drifters."  

Pike hesitated.  "How are you doing, Jet?"

Staring out the wide barn doors, his shoulders drawn up near his head and his left knee tucked against his chest, Jet said nothing for a while.  The wind blew and the fire burned, the dry pale hay under the white mare's hooves began to crack as she shifted in her sleep.  The crickets sang their songs of unknown meaning, waiting for the night to pass and the dawn to come.  A while later, the Drifter turned his head the other way, and looked at Pike blankly.  

"I don't know," he whispered, honestly.

Pike remained silent, fiddling with a lone blade of grass between his feet.  

"I'm alright, I guess."  Jet sighed, closing his eyes and forgetting for a moment everything he could forget.  There wasn't much, since there was hardly anything to remember, and if he had nothing to remember, then he had nothing to forget.  "The strangest thing happened in Little Twister.  You wouldn't believe it.  I hardly could.  It was as if it were a dream.  I really did expect to wake up any moment, but I didn't."

Pike watched with his brows creased as his friend breathed a sigh.  Softly, "What happened in Little Twister, Jet?"

Laughing a low sound with no humor, the pale head lowered.  "I saw a ghost."

"A…ghost?"  The dark-haired boy paled.

With a snicker, Jet nodded.  "That's right.  You always hated things like that.  Well, what do you know, Pike, it was one of those transparent ones with no feet.  You know, the ones that end in wisps of smoke?  Its face was mangled and missing an eye.  It looked like it was rotting.  A real horror, even scared the lights out of me."  With amusement, he watched his friend's eyes grow wider by the second.  "Hey, look, it's outside right now."

At that, Pike let out a relieved sigh, but did sneak a glance at the barn's backdoor, just in case.  "Don't kid me like that!" he scolded, holding his hand over his heart as the color returned to his skin.  He shot a less than half-hearted leer to his left, but stopped once he sighted the forlorn air that surrounded his companion.  It hung in the pregnant air, and Pike understood why Jet had come this time.  "Did you want to say anything to me?" asked Pike, off-handedly.  "How have you really been doing?"

"I've been better," the Drifter admitted, after a brief lull, as his eyes trailed over to where his weapon lay.  "I've been a lot better.  I think I'd be better if I were lying in a sandy ditch with Pill Bugs digesting me alive."

Pike murmured something like, "Sounds great."

Jet snickered.  "That was sarcasm, wasn't it?  I didn't know you were capable of it.  Do you want some applause, and a cry for an encore?"

Although the corner of his mouth did twitch, Pike was not too amused.  "Stop changing the subject.  If you're going to tell me what's wrong, you might as well do it without taking the whole night.  It's late.  I need to sleep, you need to sleep, and you also need to tell me whatever's bothering you, because that is indeed what you came here to do, after all, wasn't it?   Don't give me that look – of course I could tell.  You haven't been as preoccupied as you are tonight since you visited with…your drifter group…"

The bitterness in Jet's eyes hardened a little, as he heard Pike's voice trailing off in uncertainty at mentioning something he had sworn not to bring up.  Jet said, "I talk to you too much.  You know me more than I want you to."

"You only come a couple times a year." Pike retorted, but only in jesting.  A couple times a year was more than what most people got in a lifetime from the stoic gunman.  He laughed a little, in an attempt to lighten the mood.  "So, are you going to talk to me or not?"

"Would you ever be afraid of me?"

The sudden abruptness of this question startled the other boy into a momentary silence.  It took him a full minute to recover, during which the Drifter fell characteristically silent.  The candle was burning out quickly, and it would be completely dark soon, with only starlight and moonlight to guide them.  "Why would you ask that?" he stuttered.  There was something in that tone of voice that scared him.  A sense of foreboding chilled his bones.  "I mean, what kind of question is that?"

Jet faced him with an expression that was unreadable, even with Pike's expertise.   "I killed a man yesterday, Pike.  Shot him in the neck, under the chin yesterday.  I killed an innocent man in Little Twister."  A flicker of empty dying hopelessness passed across his eyes for a second, as he watched the other's face contort with something akin to surprise and cold fear.  Afraid of that kind of look, Jet pressed on further and told him everything, in hopes that he could tell and just run away, never to see that kind of emotion again.  

"And then I ran away.  I think by now, Ian's figured out it was me, and I have no where to run anymore."  He took a deep breath.  "I have somewhere to go first, but after that, do you think that I could maybe hide here for a while?"  He wanted it now – the familiarity that he had returned for.  

Without a moment in-between, "Are you leaving once dawn breaks?"

With lead in his chest, Jet nodded, but just barely.  "Yeah.  I'll need to take my horse again.  I'll leave once morning comes." 

Then, "Will you come back in three months again?  Maybe you can come back sooner than that.  I wanted to celebrate your birthday, since the only party you've ever had was last year.  Do you like cake?  I think that if you wanted, we could afford to buy some cake from the inn."  Pike rattled and rambled on and on about his future plans, for an hour or so, until it was almost dawn.  When he was finished, he smiled that closed-eyed grin and asked Jet what he thought about it and if that was alright?

With a terribly straight face that he himself was surprised he could manage, Jet answered, "I hate cake.  I hate sweet things.  I hate parties."

Pike laughed.  "Maybe not then."

"Definitely not," he quipped.  Rising to his feet, he brushed off the back of his jacket and pants, crossing over to pick up the Airgetlahm and slinging it over his shoulder, feeling its familiar and metallic weight rest against his back.  Staring at the nearing dawn as the last of the steadfast candle burnt out and died into milky wax, he thought that perhaps things wouldn't be so bad after all.  If worse came to worse, he could come back here for a birthday party.  Thus encouraged, he bid a short farewell to Pike.  

"Come back for your birthday.  Or I _will_ buy cake," said Pike, waving from the door.

Jet snapped the reigns and his steed galloped into the rising sun.  

Virginia had to bend at the waist, or otherwise Kaitlyn's little arms wouldn't have been long enough to provide for hand-holding.  As the child skipped down the paved street, weaving between the sparse number of people at a strikingly rapid pace, hand-holding was definitely a necessity.  It was terrible for her back though, and the female Drifter was very relieved when the little girl brought her down to the bridge and finally stopped.  

Kaitlyn leaned over the stone railing, threatening to fall.  She lifted one small finger and pointed at the shadows underneath.  "I heard," she whispered so quietly that Virginia had to bend again, "that there's a goblin under the bridge.  He never comes out, and no one's been down to visit him for ages."

Rubbing the small of her back with the pads of her fingers as she straightened, Virginia smiled.  "It's probably just a rumor, Kaitlyn.  No goblins are going to live under a bridge in the middle of a human city."  

"No, it's true.  I came down here one day, when Daddy was gone and Mommy was cooking, and I heard it snoring!  I was….there," she said, as she pointed to a specific spot right below them, hidden completely by shadow, "and I heard him sleeping."  She paused; face wrinkling adorably, seemingly caught on a troubling subject.  "Do you think," she said after a few seconds, "that he gets lonely sometimes?"

Virginia chuckled.  "There isn't a goblin down there."

Kaitlyn, obviously not agreeing, countered, "But if there was?"

"I don't know how a goblin would feel. What makes you think he'd be lonely?"

"Because he's down there all alone, and in the dark.  He won't come out, and maybe because he's scared of the light like I'm scared of the dark, right?  But there aren't many other people like that, and the other goblins won't come and find him.  He'll be down there by himself forever!"  She spread her arms, trying to express the expanse of infinity.  "Don't you think that gets lonely sometimes?  If I were the goblin, I think I would get really lonely and really sad, without Mommy and Daddy with me."  

Perhaps a little credulous, Virginia's eyes wandered of their own accord to that hidden, secret, shadowed spot.  "Maybe," said she, as she joined the little girl in peeking over the bridge, "maybe he is lonely after all.  I think I'd be lonely too."

Kaitlyn slipped her tiny fingers against the gloved palm of the elder girl.  "Let's go meet him," she proposed, looking up with earnest.  "I was afraid before, but if Virginia's with me, I won't be.  Let's go meet him, and visit him, so that he won't be lonely anymore.  Because, even if he's a goblin, it isn't fair for him.  And I think he'd like it if we made friends with him.  Maybe he won't be as bad as the goblins in the fairytales.  Maybe he'll be really nice.  And then we'll like being his friends too."

Touched by such honest, innocent whim, the Drifter had no choice but to nod.  Squeezing the small fingers in reassurance, she turned towards the stairs.  Reason told her that she would find nothing but stone in that shadowed spot, but fancy told her otherwise.  Both seemed inclined to at least try, and so she planned to do just that.  But as she took the first step, her companion was suddenly not quite so eager.  Kaitlyn wouldn't budge, her feet were planted to the floor and her eyes peered curiously at the door of the ARMsmith.

"What's wrong?"  Virginia asked.

"I thought I saw…" the little girl began, but closed her mouth right after.  "Nevermind.  Let's go."  With renewed fervor, she bounced down the steps and slid down the ladder with Virginia in tow.

In the shadowed spot, there was nothing.  Kaitlyn wheezed with disappointment, pouting as if she could make a hole appear if she begged hard enough.  Virginia ran her fingers against the wall in the spots she couldn't see, where the stone was dimmed by lack of light, and found that part of it was cracked, and part of it was not made of stone at all, but of dried clay and dust.  There was nothing there now, but maybe if Clive could lend them a bomb or two…

"Virginia!  It's time for supper!" called the child, suddenly not beside her but in the open light, and with her limitless energy, she sprung up the stairs without further ado.  

"Maybe later then," Virginia mused to herself, and slowly echoed their footsteps home.  The sun had just begun to set, staining the sky with spilled reds and oranges that faded into blacks and blues like fire into bruises.  At the very edges of the forthcoming night, the first pioneer stars began to emerge.  Without a cloud in the distance, the night would be quiet and peaceful.  Perhaps she would get a better sleep.

"I was afraid you'd given me wrong directions too."

With her hand on the doorknob, she could only see the door, but in the door was embedded a copper doorknocker, and in the metal she could see his thin reflection.  "You sure took your time," she chided, turning slowly.  She saw that his horse was at the town gates, and that he had a wound that was not there before.  "We thought you'd never come at all, or that at least Clive would be a grandparent before you showed up.  I was mistaken.  You're not quite a coward after all."

He avoided her eyes carefully and conspicuously.  "That's a heavy title to give…."

The door slammed once.  Kaitlyn had come outside, to see what was keeping her playmate so long, to see if a goblin really had come out after all.  She paused, shy and half-hiding behind Virginia's skirts, eyes wide and searching and trying to find.  The goblin stopped what he had been saying and met her questioning gaze with a level and storm-ridden stare.  He remembered her.  He remembered almost everyone since that time.  It wasn't much to keep in his memory, which was so empty anyway.

"I saw you before," said the little girl, "are you Virginia's friend?" she asked meekly.

Meeting blue-green eyes with a fleeting glance, he nodded shakily.  "I think so.  Yeah.  Clive's daughter, aren't you?  Kaitlyn Winslet."

Reassured, Kaitlyn stepped out.  "Oh, you know Daddy too!" she exclaimed with a grin, "What's your name?"

"Jet Enduro."  

Spoiler Note:  A goblin really does live under the bridge in Humphrey's Peak.  Uncle Gob is part of a side quest to acquire an Ex File Key.


	5. Glissando

Note:  I'm so sorry for the long breaks between chapters.  Chapter is unedited.

In reply to a comment:  There's a big difference between shooting someone for survival and shooting an innocent as a mistake.

The Cadence

_Glissando – Between_

            The door clicked shut so quietly it was drowned out by the dull beating of boots against wooden floors.  Clive let his hand slip off the copper doorknob and faced the mahogany wood, smelling of home and all things he held dear, with a neutral sigh.  With a smile gracing a mouth above a newly shaved chin, he said without looking up, "We trusted him once, Gallows, with our very lives.  Must you hold such animosity towards him?"

            The burly man scoffed, arms crossed over his bare, tanned chest and stared stubbornly at the winding patterns in the oak floorboards. "That's exactly why I don't trust him.  Once was enough, and look what he did – packed up and left like a dog with its tail between its legs.  Do you even know what it says on his wanted posters?  Two murders were scratched on to his list a couple days ago."

            "We don't even know who he killed."

            "So?  They were murders!"

            Clive pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, exasperated.  "Gallows, that would make us murderers also."  

            Behind their secret conversation, the soft drone of a voice gone ragged read out the simple and fantastical lines of a children's bedtime story about tea parties, kites and castles in the snow.  Every now and then, a lighter, freer voice would chirp with laughter as Kaitlyn clapped her hands with glee, no doubt practically bouncing on the chair.  She had heard the story hundreds of times, but magic died hard in youth.

            Gallows frowned.  "You're leaving the squirt in there with a man like that?"

            Clive stepped away from the door, and the other man knew the threshold would not be crossed again tonight.  It was a battle long lost.  "I said," Clive repeated, with the patience of a father and the wisdom of an elder tainting his composed voice, "I trust him like I trusted – like you trusted – him before.  He will not lay a malevolent hand on my child."

            "Well, you never know…"

            "Kaitlyn will not be harmed." Clive repeated, strictly.  

            The protectiveness and the strength in that voice never failed him.  It was a voice they all had relied on countless times before, a voice that told of the fierce but gentle, kind but iron-handed man behind it.  It was the kind of voice that instilled a sense of awe in the listener, the kind that people listened to regardless the circumstance.  It was the kind of voice that could end a conversation and an argument with the stubbornness that was a Caradine.

            The Baskar would-be priest could only huff.  "I know, I know.  All I'm saying is that we shouldn't warm up to him just yet.  Give him a few days to prove himself a better man than before."  He paused, voice growing softer with a sad sort of pain from days long past.  Was it that long ago, when they had all laughed freely?  Their throats had shackles and chains on them now.  "A couple years can do a lot to a man."

            "That's true," conceded Clive.  "They can, quite a lot to a man, quite some more to a woman."  He looked up, just as the sound of Virginia's light footsteps echoed to the rafters from the doorway below.  Her bell-like voice chirped a greeting to Catherine, wishing the woman a good day and if Kaitlyn could come out and play perhaps?

            Gallows shook his head slowly from side to side.  "Are you sure this is it?"

            "I think," answered the other, a grin etched with an enigma dropping into place.  The expression was a bafflement, and slightly unsettling.  Gallows shifted on his feet.  "I think it has always been it.  I think it has never been, could ever be, anything else.  They will be fine."  Famous last words and they both knew it.  Clive looked to the floor and Gallows to his face with a slightly mocking frown.  "I'm sure they'll be fine."

            "She really hasn't been herself lately."

            Downstairs, there was a bang, a thud, a crash and a high squeal of laughter as Virginia discovered, once again, that her hands, no matter how adept at handling a pistol, were not meant for housework, and that her rear-end, no matter how accustomed to a horse's saddle, still ached when introduced rudely to the ground.  "Oh, I'm sorry!  I didn't mean to drop that!"

            "Oh, dear, are you alright?" Catherine asked, but the question was a struggle in itself, the asker trying desperately not to burst into peals of giggles herself.  

            Behind the mahogany door, a silver-dusted head left its sanctuary buried amidst the endless words and capricious whims of a children's fairytale.  His eyes were glazed and distant as they looked beyond pages and pictures, while his reading slowed to a definite halt.  

            Kaitlyn leaned forward on her chair until she almost toppled over, eyes wide and wondering.  "Jet?  Mister Jet?  Are you alright?"

            His chin snapped up so quickly his teeth clattered, and he blinked, eyes shaded with a strange emotion she had never known, at her.  He had never truly been a child before, didn't remember a time when he was as unadulterated because there never was such a time.  Drowning out accusations, stolid whispers, and a lady's footsteps he could hear through thin painted walls, "No, nothing's wrong.  Where was I again?"

            "They went to find her!" answered the girl attentively, instantly revitalized in a world where if one said they were alright, they were.  She never knew better, and he hoped to every deity that she would stay that way for as long as possible.  

            This little child was, in a way, heartbreakingly beautiful, made of brightness and sunshine and butterflies on clear-blue days.  Maybe she would stay that way, hoped cloudy skies and thunderstorms would keep their distance, maybe Time and Evil would gloss her over.  It was nice, having something made of everything so good near him.  She clapped her hands and pointed eagerly with short thin fingers to the exact line, phrase, word he had stopped after.  

            "Oh, right.  So it was snowing…"

            "No, not there!  After that!"  

            Meanwhile, brows furrowing, Clive added, "It is not our place to interfere."

            Both of Gallows' thick eyebrows rose very sharply at that.  All he muttered was, "Huh."

            With an almost furiously straight face, "I am very injured, Gallows," he stated with mock injured pride, voice deadpan but eyes glittering.  "I do believe that was a mockery of my morals.  For your information, my dear friend, I am not interfering, merely," he made a rolling twist of his hand on his wrist, a vague and silly gesture, "helping things go along, aiding fate if you will.  A mere background puppet pulling a few of my own strings…  But if you insist, we'll see how it goes on a mission."

            Gallows frowned deeply.  "We're bringing him on a mission?"

            With a nod, "Yes, you're bringing him on a mission.  A simple one, nothing too grand.  See how it goes; see if it brings back anything in him, we've yet to see how the years have changed him.  It will be fresh change, don't you think?  After all, you'll need someone for that last lead we had since I'll be 'retiring', so to speak.  Consider this as my…parting gift, to, as I said, aid fate.  It'll be for their own good," finished Clive, with nothing other than great and elegant flourish.  

            Could anything less than aplomb come from him?  It was absurd to think otherwise.

            "Fate, huh. How…fatherly of you," Gallows managed to coo and smirk at the same time.  The man's face had a plethora of expressions, and yet he did not wear his heart on his sleeve.  None of them were as simple as that.  "For their own good, of course."

            "Of course," Clive echoed, with a secret little smile.  

            It was almost like old times, he noticed with a dull painful ache in his chest that was pummeled down by his steady heartbeat.  If only Clive stopped shooting worried glances over the rim of his glasses, he thought, poking at his plate with a silver fork.  He knew the man meant well and tried to be subtle, but if Jet could notice him that easily, then his idea of subtleness was in dire need of aid.  

            Gallows occasionally threw not-so-benevolent glances over his shoulder too, and if looks could do as much as they were meant to, the left side of his head would've been annihilated by now.  

            Catherine sat politely next to her husband, flushed with a humble sense of pride over a dinner well served.  The space between her chair and Clive's was smaller than that between anyone else's and the way she naturally leaned against him for a sort of unsaid support was simply sweet.  

            Occasionally, she reached over to tap Kaitlyn's wrist whenever the child got out of hand, but that occasion was rare.  She watched everyone at the table with equal interest, observing with a woman's eye every movement not made, every word not said.

            Kaitlyn laughed at a joke she didn't quite comprehend, doing so merely for the sake of laughing.  She always swallowed before she did and always wiped her mouth with her handkerchief afterwards.  Clive was not looking at her, but watched her all the time with a warm swelling in his chest.  

            To the left, Virginia smiled broadly.  Everything she did was hardly small.  She talked and walked and acted big in a world she saw as merely bigger.  To her, small voices fell on deaf ears; small actions were seen by the blind.  She was never loud, never brash, strangely gentle but strangely big.  Amidst her buoyant, seemingly endless chatter, she turned and asked quietly why Jet wasn't eating.

            His head was lowered, frowning at his plate.  "The food's great and everything, but I'm not very hungry," he said half-truthfully and did not say how awkward he felt between so much laughter and happiness and light, but she seemed to understand as she nodded and, underneath the table, brushed her fingers over his hand.  

            His jaw tensed, but she only noticed that he did not pull away and that was good enough.

            She used to touch him all the time.  It was nothing new.  They were never more than fleeting brushes, but the fact that she touched him was important nonetheless.  Sometimes she would just push lightly against him ass he walked past, or maybe laid her hand on his shoulder.  Sometimes, in a fit of fright she would clutch at his arm if he were the nearest one.  It was nothing special.  Virginia was a touchy sort of person.  She depended on Gallows and Clive the same way.

            Still, he should've warned her not to do that, he thought, after all he had done in a little rundown town west of Claiborne.            

             "So," Virginia began offhandedly, reaching to her left to pick up a golden brown roll, "didn't you have something to ask, Clive?"  

            Gallows covered his mouth with his hand and let out something that sounded suspiciously like, "Ugh, not another speech."

            Virginia turned to him, buttering her roll with easy finesse, and smiled her brightest.  "Something wrong, Gallows?"  The knife in her hand stopped moving, glinting in the soft light.  "If there's something you need to say, go ahead."

            The Baskar eyed the utensil in her grasp and shook his head.  "Uh…no, thanks."

            Clive smiled and his glasses glinted.  Their leader always had the upper hand.  He stood up and raised his glass, tapping his fork against it lightly.  It was not surprising; he had always been a steadfast fan of formal rituals.  Clearing his throat, "Ahem, yes, thank you, Virginia, I had been meaning to use tonight's meal to make an important announcement to everyone here."  

            Catherine took the glass when he handed it to her without even needing to be prompted and set it safely on the table.  There was a very small, sweet smile tugging at her lips, trying to manifest itself even as she held her finger to her mouth to tell her daughter to be quiet.  The woman glowed with a certain sense of humble beauty.  So she already knew, Virginia thought with a soft smile, happy for the Winslet family.

            "I would like to formally announce that from today on, I will be retiring as a drifter," he said, though in truth it was a fact just needing to be verbalized.  His comrades had known it would happen some day, seeing his nostalgic expression on certain mornings.  His family had always known it, because no number of miles could separate the bindings of the heart.  Jet looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised.  He had been the only one unaware.

            "Really, Daddy?" Kaitlyn burst out.  

            "Congratulations, Clive!" Virginia exclaimed, as the table rose to toast the man.  

            "So Clive really is a family man after all!" Gallows bellowed, a little flushed with wine.  He clapped his friend soundly on the back.  "I can't say I won't miss you and that I want you gone, but you definitely deserve it!  And it saves me from your winding lectures!"  

            As they settled down, Catherine fixed a warm gaze on her husband as Kaitlyn bounded out of her seat to throw her arms around her father's neck.  Virginia and Gallows gave each other thumbs-up while the family wasn't looking.  Jet looked from one face to another and could not understand what the emotion hanging in the air was.  Somehow that fact made his stomach feel oddly cold.  

            "How did you get up here?" a voice said suddenly, startling him out of his quiet reverie.  "Not even I knew how to get up here before Catherine told me tonight."  

            He threw a look over his shoulder.  "I climbed the tree."

            Amused, "You…climbed my tree?  That's…something I didn't know you could do."  

            "Do you want me to get off your roof?" he asked nonchalantly, swinging one leg listlessly over the edge and resting his elbow on the knee of the other.  The shingles were cutting into the back of his knee as he moved, but that discomfort was lost since he paid no attention to it.  "Because if you do, I'll just jump off if you want."

            Clive dusted his hands free of sand and dirt and shook his head, approaching where the boy sat with steady cautiousness.  His footsteps fell lightly as not to wake the people beneath him.  "Oh, no, feel free to sit on my roof for as long as you please.  My house is open to my friends, every part of it, after all."  

            The line of Jet's back stiffened.  He said, "Yeah.  That's….why I was asking."  

            The ever-present smile faded off of the elder man's face slowly, lit only by lamplight.  It was dark, but not enough for it to be too cold to stay outdoors.  Faintly, he could hear crickets chirping, and the sound was still relatively new to him.  There had hardly been crickets a few years before, since there had hardly been any green place for crickets to live in.  "Mind if I sit by you?" he asked, thought it was mere formality.  He was settling down even as he said it.  

            "It's your roof anyway," Jet reminded bluntly.

            Clive sighed, running an ungloved hand through his neat hair.  "If it means anything, I still consider you a comrade."

            Jet made no motion to reply.  He craned his neck to see the sky.  He felt oddly comfortable here, in the night and the dark with the stars scattered above him.  After a minute or so, he lowered his gaze and rested it on the one-time-teammate beside him.  Slowly, carefully, and disbelievingly, he asked, "How could you?  Why do you?"

            Clive smiled again.  "The way conditions are now, if you're not my enemy you're my comrade."

            "That's a pretty simplified way of thinking."

            "Everyone has human faults.  It'd be hypocritical if I were not able to forgive someone for his mistakes when I have made a great number of my own, don't you think?  I knew you once, and I don't think you have changed enough to fully alter the very core that makes you who you are.  I trusted you then, and Virginia still trusts you now, therefore so do I.  Gallows may be a little suspicious, but he'll warm up soon enough.  You remember how he was; he hasn't changed either."  

            Jet frowned.  "Sounds like a bunch of lies," he said frankly.

            Rubbing the back of his neck in a familiar, recognizable, sheepish gesture, the man admitted, "Yes, I do suppose it does, but it's true.  When you've seen all the things we have in the past few years, you'd learn to forgive the little things too.  What you did, compared to the sins of many others, is nothing.  Don't be so hard on yourself.  If you haven't gotten the point yet, what you did is forgivable.  We don't hate you for it.  We're not beating you up over it, so don't take the liberty to beat yourself up instead."  

            Fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of his jacket, the boy shrugged noncommittally.

            "Always one for words, I see."

            "I never thought I would say this, but right now Gallows does seem like the smartest of you three.  At least he knows who he should and shouldn't trust."

            "Oh, nonsense," said the man, waving a dismissive hand in good humor.  "Buy him a beer at an inn and he'll consider you his best friend in the entire world.  He's fickle like that."

            The younger drifter turned his head away, trying to hide his reluctant smile.

            Ah, so things weren't hopeless, Clive thought.  "I believe that the issue isn't whether or not we trust you, but whether or not you're ready to trust us again.  You never were the type to fancy relying on someone, after all.  Until you can accept the fact that once in a while, you must, we won't be able to help you."  

            "…Whatever you say."  

            There was more to be said about what didn't go past his mouth rather than what did.   He had not made an attempt to deny Clive's claim, and that was significant in itself.  He wondered why, afterwards, and when he did, long nights without sleep with only the stars to talk to came rushing back.  Not that he needed anything more, he had told himself, but now he recalled the sheer warmth surrounding the dinner table that night and the justification seemed very lacking all of a sudden.  

            "Truth be told," began the ex-drifter slowly, watching the other's face for even the slightest reaction to guide him, "I had a request to ask of you."  

            Jet turned to him.  "Well, you did give me room and board.  I guess I owe you."

            "Now, now, I said that was only my duty as an old friend, if you will."  

            Scoffing, "Just tell me what you want me to do, Clive."  

            "Join again."  The boy was startled; it was clear.  Jet reeled backwards and only caught himself in time not to fall off.  "You don't have to make your decision right away, if you're not sure.  Now that I'm retiring, you see, Gallows and Virginia – they're short a hand, and things will be difficult for them.  I'm sure you could help them somehow, and your aid would be appreciated.  It'll help you get your mind off other unpleasant things, I'm sure."  

            The outlaw's eyes widened suspiciously.  "How did you…"

            "Oh, come now.  We're all wanted men here.  It wasn't hard to see your face when you came in the day before.  That sort of look isn't from road-weariness.  Something must be bothering you.  So just go on one mission with them.  There'll be no strings attached.  If you can handle it, stay and help them.  They'll be helping you along the way.  If you can't, you are always free to quit and leave."  

            It did not go unnoticed the way the man proposed the idea.  He was very good at manipulating words.  "If you like" was an offer, but "if you can handle it" was a challenge.  Jet looked down past the shingles at his foot as it stilled to a complete halt.  Minutes passed, the stars glittered, and when it was almost too chilly to stay outdoors any longer, he raised his head and said, "And you're not even going to ask what it is I did?"

            "We all have our secrets.  You'll tell yours in due time.  It isn't my place to force you," replied the elder simply.  Now if that's the only thing stopping you, will you go with them?"

            "If they'll have me."  The drifter's shoulders were huddled, both knees drawn into his chest and Clive wondered if he knew how worried he looked just by posture alone.  "I'm not reliable, though, and I'm not trustworthy."  

            The sniper stood, brushed his jacket off out of habit and held out a hand for the other to take as he helped him up.  "They'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon," he said, disregarding the last statement,"so you best get a good night's rest and prepare in the morning."  

            Jet followed the man down the ladder he had not even realized was there and was shooed politely into his room.  The Winslet house was not bigger than he had remembered.  There was still only one guestroom with three beds.  The lights were out when he pushed the door open with a painfully sharp creak to slip through and Gallows was snoring like he meant to bring the house down using volume alone.

            "Che," he huffed as he looked down at the Baskar, "he still snores like a bull." 

            "Jet?" came a softer voice and he started.  She wasn't asleep yet?  "Is that you?"

            "Yeah.  Go to sleep," he replied shortly, dismissively, crossing to the floor to reach the empty bed in the left corner.  Back then, he had slept in that one too, his mind told him distantly, and that made his heart shudder.  Half-way across the wooden boards, a hand shot up and grabbed at his scarf, effectively restraining him from going any further.  "Hey!" he hissed, "What's the big idea?  Let go of me!"

            "You're still so easy to rile up."  Virginia's eyes were very bright in the shadows.  They stared, wide and perhaps hopeful, up at him as she propped herself up on her elbows in her bed, causing him to retreat a step away.  There was so much unguarded emotion in that look; he turned away to look out the window.  She let go once she was sure he would not bolt, and said, "Did Clive ask you?"  

            "So you knew," he answered, but somehow he had known that all along.

            "Did you accept?" she continued, straightforward as always.

            He turned and found that her brows were creased.   He didn't realize how badly he wanted to believe Clive's words until then – how badly he wanted someone to trust him now that he could hardly trust himself.  "Yeah, I'll try it out if it's alright.  I'll…" he began, feeling as though he needed to make some sort of promise to this girl – anything oath he could keep just to prove himself after failing once.   "I'll…do a better job this time around."

            "It's alright," she told him, closing her eyes so that the room seemed all that much darker.  "It really is more than alright.  I'm just…glad you agreed."  

            He paused, thinking of words to say and settled for a soft, "Yeah."

            It was a ghost of a touch, but for a moment she laid her palm atop his.  "Don't worry about it too much.  Everything will work out."

            And would it?  Gunshots rang in his ears and the sight of human blood scarred his vision.  Little Twister and a jail cell and the reek of death – that was only a couple days ago.  What would they think, if they knew about that?  He tried opening his mouth to tell her that no, things wouldn't work out, but found that his jaw wouldn't budge.  It was only after his teeth hurt from clenching that he realized it was fear.  In this world, there were so little people who trusted him; he didn't want to reduce that number anymore.

            "I…you don't know what I…" he began, the words choking him.

            "Don't worry about it," she interrupted with a confident shake of her head.  Without waiting, she burrowed back under her covers, turning so that she faced him with her back, murmuring a soft and satisfied, "After all, I've got my own promise to keep.  When I said I was going to help you recover your memories, I wasn't lying.  Goodnight, Jet.  See you tomorrow."

            That was a promise, he realized later on as he fell onto the mattress.  'See you tomorrow' because one time I had woken up and you weren't there, she meant.  He sighed, running his fingers across his scalp and stared at the colorless ceiling.  Seven minutes later, he was past consciousness and by then it was too late for him to realize that that was much shorter than the hours he had spent plagued with insomnia for the past few years.  


End file.
